One Thing More by Anne Perry Page B

portentous and he turned his clear, bright eyes on each of them. ‘Because, of course, if you did, it might give us cause to doubt your loyalty.’
    ‘We are all ardent supporters of the revolution in this house!’ Monsieur Lacoste said vehemently, and there was far more anger in his voice than fear. ‘You insult us, Citizen Menou. Is it not enough that your men cannot control the crowds in the street, and they break into our house and—’ He stopped abruptly. It was impossible to read his face.
    ‘Yes, Citizen?’ Menou prompted. ‘You were going to say “and kill our benefactor.” Then you remembered that it was one of you in here, one of your loyal revolutionaries, who did that.’
    ‘I ...’ Lacoste was lost for an answer.
    It was Marie-Jeanne who replied. ‘He was not our benefactor,’ she contradicted Menou. ‘He was my father, and in return for living here we looked after him and kept the house. You speak as if he were a stranger, and that’s not true.’
    Menou glanced around, eyes appreciative. ‘A large house. Sufficient for many people,’ he remarked. He looked back at Marie-Jeanne. ‘Who inherits it now, Citizeness? Are there any other relatives—you have brothers?’
    Suddenly she realised her own predicament and her voice wavered. ‘No.’
    ‘None at all?’
    ‘No. I was the only child, and my mother died when I was born.’
    ‘A nice inheritance, Citizeness. Your father must have been a very wealthy man.’
    They all caught the edge of criticism in his voice, perhaps of envy also. Property of any sort was a contentious matter these days.
    Marie-Jeanne stiffened, but it was Madame Lacoste who answered, her head high, eyes burning.
    ‘He worked hard and he saved to buy a house that many people could live in. That was his wish. Is it not what you would expect from a good revolutionary, Citizen Menou? To shelter the homeless, in return for work, and dignity?’ She looked at him without a shred of fear.
    Menou was taken aback. It showed naked for a moment in his eyes, then it was gone, deliberately masked, as if it were something he was ashamed of.
    ‘Yes, Citizeness,’ he agreed. ‘He was a fine man. I will see that justice is done for him, don’t doubt it. His murderer will go to the guillotine, along with all other traitors to the people.’
    Célie stared at him. Did he really think it was political? It could be, but for the very opposite of the reasons he believed. Fernand and Monsieur Lacoste were ardent enough in their support of the new way to have betrayed Bernave, if they had known he was fighting to save the King’s life. They would not have understood his reasons. Marie-Jeanne did not care one way or the other, but she would have killed to save her children. Placid as she seemed, Célie knew her well enough to understand that. She had seen the animal fury and courage in her when a soldier had tried to be vulgarly intimate with her small daughter. She had reacted instantly and without the slightest thought of consequence to herself. The soldier had been taken totally by surprise, and backed off as if his pet dog had suddenly sunk its teeth into his hand.
    St Felix cleared his throat and looked enquiringly at Menou. ‘What did Citizen Bernave do for the revolution? We should be proud of it.’
    ‘Yes, you should,’ Menou agreed fervently. ‘He risked his life spying among royalists for the Commune. There are those, even at this late day, who would attempt to restore the King and undo everything that had been achieved. Never underestimate the enemy! The sooner the King is dead the better.’
    Everyone murmured some kind of assent. It was not a comment one could allow to pass unanswered. Only Madame merely nodded.
    St Felix was staring into the distance. He looked exhausted of all emotion, even of thought. Amandine was watching him. She was trying to seem impassive, hide her feelings from Menou, but Célie knew her well enough to see the fear under her paper-thin veneer of